


I Like the Sound of the Broken Pieces

by MostlySane



Category: Marvel (Movies), Supernatural, teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Basically all my stupid little stuff that doesn't deserve it's own fic, Double Penetration, Drabble Collection, Go Home Stiles You're Drunk, Knotting, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:46:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostlySane/pseuds/MostlySane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So these are just some random short tumblr fics and also just some stupid little fics on the side. I hope you enjoy! I'll add tags as needed. The rating may go up.</p><p>Title is from Professional Griefers by Deadmau5 ft. Gerard Way</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sterek. Tumblr Prompt # 1 (Dean/Sam/Stiles)

\----

The kid was cute, in that gawky, I-haven’t-quite-grown-into-myself way. It reminded him a bit of Sam, but Dean can’t remember ever having gone through it. There was no time for gawkiness when Sam needed protecting.

But, back to the kid.

Aside from that, and the moles on his face, he looked nothing like Sam. He had whiskey brown eyes, and Dean would know that color well, and rather short brown hair. He wasn’t too tall or too short. In other words, he was perfect, and Dean was gonna take him tonight.

It was a fairly easy operation, as far as these kinds of things normally go. A drink, a wink, a smirk, a raised eyebrow and head tilt for the door, and the boy was his.

Dean considered fucking him in the Impala, but Sam would bitchface him from now to their next case if it still smelled like sex in the morning. Best to just take him to the motel, maybe even get Sam to join in, keep the little bitch in a somewhat good mood. Goodness knows there haven’t been enough of those lately, but who could blame him?

Either way, the kid was willing, all wide smiles that spread those pink, soft looking, full lips of his. He introduced himself, called himself Stiles, of all things. Dean figured it was probably his last name.

Once they’d gotten to know each other a little better, shared a few hot kisses, just enough to steam up the car a bit, Dean put the car in gear and headed to the motel.

Sam was annoyed at first, when they walked in, or perhaps a better word is stumbled in, so caught in tasting each others hot mouths, gripping at lower backs and buttocks, that they could barely pause to breathe.

He got over it though, when Dean finally detached and shoved the kid into Sam’s surprised arms. He’s even more surprised when, with an questioning whimper from Stiles and affirmative grunt from Dean, the boy firmly places his kiss swollen lips on Sam’s.

It’s a hot kiss, one that made Dean shove his jeans down and fist his cock. Stiles rubbed his ass down on Sam’s lap, swallowing the rough groan Sam let out.

Dean just stood and watched for a bit, before grabbing Stiles by the hair on his nape and none too gently pulling him towards himself to replace Sam’s lips with his own.

Sam didn’t sit idle, but unfastened Stiles jeans and pulled his boxers down with them. Stiles groaned as the cool air touched his cock, but otherwise did not protest.

The kiss was interrupted by Stiles arching back and crying out. Dean looked over his shoulder, saw his cheeks spread wide and Sam’s face burrowed in deep.

"Sh, shhh," Dean soothed as pulled Stiles back and began kissing him again, pausing only to remove both their shirts.

From there it was a blur of heat and sweat, hands and tongues and cocks. By the time they were finished, all three of them fucked out and drowsy, covered in cum and sweat and spit, they could only lay on the bed as best they could and rest in silence.

"Oh, I get knocked DOWN but I get UP again, you never gonna get me down!"

Well, until the kid’s phone started ringing. With a sheepish shrug in answer to Sam’s raised eyebrow (which managed to confer “Chumbawumba? Really?" shockingly well considering that words were involved), he picked it up.

"Hey….oh….Derek, man, I’m…..OK….Yes. Bye."

He cut the call and sent Dean a pleading look.

"What’s up, man?" Dean grunted, considering lifting his head but feeling to lazy to put up the effort. Where are the Magic Fingers when you need them?

"Umm, I don’t wanna bother you guys but, umm, can I get a ride home?" he muttered.

"Yeah, sure," Sam answered, and neatly caught the keys Dean tossed to him.

—-

"Here we are, Stiles. You going to be OK?" Sam asked as he set the handbreak and turned to look at the fidgeting teen.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah sure. Thanks for everything, man. Say thanks to Dean for me too, ‘kay? Bye!" Stiles blurted out before yanking the door open and half climbing, half tripping out of the Impala. He shut the door quickly with another sheepish grin.

"Bye…?" replied Sam bemusedly, his eyebrows scrunching a bit before he got the car in gear and drove away.

Stiles took a deep breath and prepared to face the music like the responsible, mature adult he was.

"Honey, I’m home!" he sing-songed as the front door slammed shut behind him. So much for that, he shrugged before trotting up the stairs to his room.

He had barely gotten in when Derek slammed him against the door and growled at him, his eyes flashing bloody alpha red.

"Where have you been?! You smell like a whore! One fucking wasn’t enough; you had to have two?!"

"Woah, woah, Derek, dude, it was totally not like that! I was just mi-mphhhuf" Stiles was abruptly cut off by Derek’s angry lips on his.

Next thing he knew, Stiles had been stripped of his clothes again and shoved onto the bed.

Derek roughly shoved his legs apart and up before staring in disbelief.

"What did you do?" He hissed, narrowing his eyes at Stiles.

"What do you-" Stiles was interrupted again, this time by a pair of fingers dipping into his asshole.

"You’re gaping. I could practically fit both fists in you!"

"Yeah, kinda been there done that, pal," Stiles muttered. Derek’s eyes widened.

"They fisted-" Now it was Stiles’ turn to interrupt.

"No! But like, they were both hot and horny and into me and I didn’t want to leave one hanging, so…" he trailed off, unable to keep eye contact. Derek snorted.

"That’s why blowjobs were invented, Stiles!"

"Oh," Stiles blinked, “So I guess I’m a little, um, loose now, huh? Maybe I should suck you off instead?"

Stiles tried to find any other word to describe the smile that spread on the alpha werewolf’s face, but the one that insisted on surfacing was "wolfish".

"No, actually, Stiles, this is a good thing."

"What?" Stiles’ brows furrowed in confusion.

"Well, if you’ve already taken two cocks, you probably won’t scream that much when I knot you," He growled.

"WHAT?! KNOT ME?! DEREK! What are you talking about, Derek!?" squealed Stiles in shock.

Derek’s only reply was another lupine grin before he descended down on his prey….


	2. Sterek. Tumblr Prompt # 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to the first chapter.

\-----

"Derek?" Stiles' voice wass still soft from sleep and hoarse from screaming his head off as Derek shoved something he claimed was only the size of a tennis ball up his ass but Stiles, with his new found knowledge of anal sex, could determine was bigger around than two larger than average cocks.

His ass was never going to get back in shape. It was probably also not ever going to stop leaking cum, which, eh, Stiles is not enthusiastic about but, hey, he'll take the good with bad.

"Derek?" He called out again, patting the other side of the bet. Cold. Puzzled, he sat up, wincing at the squelch between his ass cheeks.

"Sourwolf, where are you?"

Still, nothing. No shower noises, no breakfast smells, zip. Zilch. Nada.

In a flurry of mostion, Stiles searched for and located his phone, quickly dialing Derek's number.

"Hey, Derek, where are-"

"Listen, Stiles, last night was a mistake, OK. So don't call, don't write, don't visit. If I need you, I'll find you." He hung up. The stupid fucking bastard fucking hung up.

Stiles was caught between bursting into tears like a hormonal preteen girl who just had her pigtails pulled and bursting into tears like a menopausal woman at the 3D re-release of the Titanic. There were no other options.

Oh wait, yes there was. He could flail about in speechless anger until he fell of the stupid bed. Which he just did. On his ass. His ass full of Derek's cum. His fucking ass.

He'd deny it to his dying day, but Stiles burst into tears.

\--------

It'd been three months since "The Incident", as Stiles had taken to referring to it in his head. Or not referring to it, because he wasn't thinking about it at all, no sir. No siree Bob, not Stiles Stilinski!

Not Stiles Stilinski who had dated five people in those three months and fucked them all. Not Stiles Stilinski who could bare feel it, who had to tell the three guys that he had erectile disfunction to hide the fact that they didn't really do much for him. At all.

And certainly not Stiles Stilinski who browsed the wares at Fuckmeyouanimal.com in search of a fucking knotting dildo. Which, by the way, no one should ask him how he found out about, but it might have had something to do with rewatching Twilight with Lydia and looking up werewolf porn. Possibly.

But that wasn't the issue right now. The issue right now was staring at his from among the packing peanuts. Well, not actually staring at him because the Rexinator 3.0 was a pretty advanced dildo but, yeah, not quite that good. Also, staring dildos...who'd buy that shit?

Again, he was getting off track. And getting on track would be picking up the damn thing and shoving it in his stupid ass. You know, with like, lubrication and stuff.

So he did.

At first, it was nothing impressive. It was basically a dildo, nice, clean cut, and straight forward.  
So he decided to turn it up a notch. He inflated the knot.

"Ooooooh, fuuuuuuk...." He hissed out slowly. 

This was it. This was what he had been looking for. This was what Johnny and Ted and Craig, with their increasingly larger dicks and Peggy with her huge strap-on just couldn't do. Or well, it was much closer anyway.

Now this, he could get off to. And he was, until something caught his eye  
.  
There, in the window, a gleam of red. Two gleams of red. OK, three guess on who that was.

Stupid Sourwolf.

And then a devilish idea sparked in Stiles' mind. Time to get some revenge on than mangy wolf.

"Ooooh. Oh, Sam, yes!"

Was that a surprised chuff from the window?

"Right there, Dean, right there! Ohh yes, fuck me harder!"

Yeah, that was a horrified grunt.

"Ahh, Sam, Dean, yessssss! I'm so full"

An enraged roar and shatter of glass.

Stiles barely had time to be grateful that he had no electronics nears the shatter zone before he was buried under a pile of possessive werewolf.

"You want full? I'll give you full! I'll fill you so much no one but me will ever want your slutty, stretched out ass!" the alpha werewolf growled into Stiles' ear. Stiles might have protested, but Derek's next move was to yank down his pants and practically shove his dick into Stiles' mouth.

After that, all Stiles could do was hold on for the ride. And what a ride it was! Derek was a wild thing, fucking Stiles until he almost suffocated, before hauling him up and mauling his mouth. Then his clawed hands were yanking the dildo out of his ass and positioning him on all fours.

And then he was in.

Only a few quick thrusts before he was shoving his knot in so deep Stiles swore he could taste it. He could barely catch a breath, and then came the first spurt of cum. And then another. And another. And another. Soom, Stiles stopped counting, just hazily watching his belly swell.

He could only moan weakly as Derek shifted back onto his heels, leaving the poor teen hanging by the cock knotted in his ass.

"You're mind, Stiles. And you always will be," growled Derek possesively in his ear.

And Stiles would have agreed, you know, if he hadn't just passed out...


	3. Sterek. Tumblr Prompt # 3

\-----

You don’t have someone you know live through a near death experience and come out with your feelings for them just the same. They change, in different ways.

Maybe your realize you like them better than you thought. Maybe you realize that their death would leave a gaping hole that you can’t even begin to know how to fill. Maybe you realize you love them.

So when Stiles sees that stupid Sourwolf, he doesn’t think, just runs up and punches him in the jaw. Before the alpha can start to retaliate, if he was even going to, Stiles pushes closer and slams their lips together.

As far as a first kiss goes, it wasn’t the ideal. It was too hard, to biting, and there was too much fighting. It was too much about punishment and desperation and anger and relief and regret, with only the smallest bit of lust.

Still, considering who they are, what they are, where they are, they could have hardly expected a better one. It fit them, in a way.

It was easy to detach from the group, to find a secluded corner and reaffirm life, as they the others were no doubt interested in the same thing.

There were more kisses, softer, gentler, but still tinged with the essence of Stiles and Derek, which meant the perfect, tender, movie star kiss was beyond their reach. They made do.

And when it was time to go, none too sad at leaving, Stiles could only look at Derek and smile.

It wasn’t the kiss he would have imagined for them, but it was better, because it was real.


	4. Spideypool. tumblr Prompt #4

\----

The dice wasn't actually a dice. It was more like a memory disk, designed to fit in a computer's USB port. It also had the names of every new recruit to the Yamamoto family Yakuza for the last five years. Obviously, it was indespensable. And that was why Spiderman, after "liberating" it from one of the family enforcers, put it in the safest place a supersuit usually has (unless you're Batman). 

His jockstrap.

Yeah, nasty, sure, but who was gonna think to look for it there? Besides, where else would he put it? This suit wasn't exactly his favorite pair of cargoes; pockets were few and and far between. Secure pockets that would not be compromised by his usually mode of transportation, web shooters, were even fewer.

So yes, that is how he got in this awkward position, pressed up against an alley way, throat neatly encased by a stong hand, and Wade fucking Wilson aka. Deadpool's other hand pressed snugly to his balls.

The amount of groping happening was certainly not necessary by half to find the dice/disk. At any rate, no matter how die hard he was, he had certainly not stashed it in his anus! Thankfully the mercenary has taken the time to lube his fingers. But no amount of sputtered protests could convince the merc, who determined to only push in deeper, looking for the dice. 

He found something else entirely.

All Spiderman could do was writhe against the brick wall, grunting through flared nostrils and wetting the chin of his mask with drool. Deadpool's fingers mercilessly massaged his prostate.

Finally, he could take no more; Spiderman burst, releasing into his jockstrap. Deadpool gave a triumphant crow, strangely the only thing he had said so far. The merc with a mouth's fingers still lingered longer than necessary, feeling the trembling walls of his rectum, and then massaging and pulling at the sloppy ring of his anus. 

As Spiderman tried to calm himself down, Deadpool's hand slid up over his balls, giving them a firm squeeze, and into the mess in his jockstrap. His hands expertly extracted the dice. All the red and blue clad hero could do was watch as Deadpool spun around, bent over, pulled down his pants, and slid the dice into his own anus, already wet with lube.

Deadpool yanked up his pants, settled his junk, shot a smile and a peace sign over his broad shoulder, the lube and come on his gloves still shining in the street light's glow. He leaped up at the wall, daggers released from his belt out and slamming into the wall, hauled himself up to the roof.

His mask could not hide his parting wink, and then he was off. Spiderman just slumped to a seat on the hard asphalt, wincing a bit at the pressure on his ass before his advanced healing solved the problem. He sighed and cradled his head in his shaking hands.

"Oh, Wade," he huffed.


	5. Sterek. Tumblr Prompt # 5

\----

 

This was wrong. So very very bad wrong. Stiles was drunk, too drunk to know that he probably didn't want a twenty-four year old alpha werewolf's paws all over his ass. But he wasn't saying no, so Derek kept his hands there, enjoying the feel of the firm flesh under his calluses.

Stiles ground back against him, giving Derek's a nice handful. 

"Deeeeereeeeeeeekkkk" he whined in a drunken sleepy tone, his mouth pink from biting and wet from Jack Daniels and saliva.

"Stiles" the werewolf murmured, nibbling a bit on the tempting ridge of the teen's ear.

"I looooooove yooooooouuuuu!" he crowed, flailing his arms about happily. Derek froze.

"What?" he growled. Stiles shot him a goofy, too wide, alcohol soaked grin.

"I saaaaaaid I looooove yoooooouuuu! Geesh, aren you a wewolf? Dunt you have tha suuuper good hearing an stuuuff? Deeerreeek, are you gettin ooooold?" he teased, mouth stumbling over his words. 

Derek huffed, not sure what to do here. But what was clear was that nothing should happen tonight, with Stiles so drunk and Derek so...confused.

"Yeah, good to know. Now let's get you home," he muttered, then began trying to manouevre the brunet's flailing flyaway limbs.

"Buuut Deeereeeeekk! You're sposed ta say yoooou looooovvve meee tooooooo!" he yowled reproachfully as he shot his limbs out, stiffening them to make moving through the doorway impossible. 

Derek rolled his eyes and huffed again. It seemed like there'd be no way to get out of this except to play along.

"Ugh, yes, Stiles, I love you too. Can we please go now?"

"Hmmm," Stiles blinked sleepily,"Okay."

He let go and let Derek carry him to the Camaro. The werewolf sighed and drove him home, settling him into his bed and leaving a glass of water and an asprin on his night stand.

And that was that.


	6. Sterek. Random Short Fic # 1 [Portraits]

\----

Werewolf senses are strange things, especially the sense of smell. It probably varies from individual to individual, but for Derek, despite having had it all his life, it is not as precise as others probably think it is.

About the only time he actually stops to catalogue all the scents of a person is the first time they meet. After that, he simply "skims the surface", so to speak, taking note of any aggravation, nervousness, or any other easily identifiable emotion. Their base scent kind of loses it individual scents, and simply becomes labeled as, say, Erica, instead of leather/perfume/teenage girl/brown sugar/sweat/blood/coffee/pack.

So, the first time he met Stiles, he quickly catalogued his scent. There was the main scent of boy, yes, and sweat and Axe deodorant. He also smelled like curly fries, gasoline and old leather from his Jeep, and some unusual laundry detergent. There were undercurrents of cinnamon and ginger, ink, and perhaps a dash of black currant. Two other scents always pervaded the air around the boy, medicine and paint.

He had been curious about both of those when they first met in the woods, but their subsequent meetings were not conducive to questions of that nature. Of course, it had only taken a few more run-ins to figure out the medicine scent on his own, Adderall, for the boys obvious attention disorder. The paint, however remained a mystery, and, eventually, he forgot to ask, and it simply became another strand in the tapestry of Stiles; not easily explainable, but non-threatening, and thusly easily ignorable.

Derek had also been in the boy's room, several times, in fact, where the smell of paint was obvious, at first, but quickly overpowered by hormones and Stiles' own vibrancy. He simply took it as perhaps a new paint coating for the room, and left it at that.

Which was why it came as such a surprise that Stiles was an artist, a painter, to be exact.

After he knew, Derek supposed it was obvious. Those miniscule splatters of paint on the hem of his t-shirts, the colorful dye that sometimes crept under his fingernails, and, most of all, that overwhelming odor of paint, all pointed towards it.

But when he found out, during a frantic search for a wandering pixie prince in the Stilinski home, he hardly had the time to do more than mentally curse the set up of Stiles' painting room for offered so many delectable hiding spots for a mischievous young pixie.

It was only weeks after the commotion, and a near war with the little prince's parents, that Derek had the time to pay the painting room another visit. He'll admit to his cowardice; he visits when Stiles is at school, and the Sheriff at work.

The room isn't very large, but it is airy, with a floor to ceiling window that gives an excellent view of the house's backyard. There are painted canvases hung up on the walls, and partly completed ones on easels set up at seemingly random points in the room. A few ratty, over stuffed arm chairs are placed here and there, and a giant, paint splattered patchwork rug covers most of the floor. The smell of paint is almost dizzying. After taking it all in, Derek finally begins to look more closely at the paintings themselves.

There are portraits and landscapes and close ups of random objects. And by random, Derek means really random. He spots paintings of a pair of muddy Converse, a bagel and cup of steaming coffee, an old fashioned Sheriff's star, a silver statuette of Ares, an eery china doll, and a slender, delicate, white teapot full of peacock feathers and red and black roses.

The landscapes are intricate and not all completely earthly. In fact, on closer inspection, Derek sees that few of them are. Some are outright strange, alien landscapes from Stiles' own imagination. Others are obviously from movies; Derek recognizes a Coruscant skyline. He even sees a flaming pair of towers, obviously a timed piece of the New York skyline, and one one of the backyard. 

But all of the others, ones that on the surface appear to be simply landscapes of rainy streets and flower dotted meadows, have, somewhere, hidden behind a street light or tall bush, some supernatural creature. Derek identifies faeries, vampires, ghosts, and revenants. He may see a werewolf in one, but he can't be sure.

And then there are the portraits.

Derek realizes that though most of them are people he knows, they seem different somehow. 

He sees the Sheriff, but instead of his usual look of weary determination and long-suffering, he sees steely courage and an almost kingly sterness in the lines of his face and the gleam of his eyes.

Scott looks strangely like what one would imagine a Knight of the Round Table to look like, and Allison looks something like a plotting rogue. Lydia has the look of a queen being led silently to her death, and Jackson's face is painfully hungry and wanting. Isaac's face is thin and waifish, but sharp when Derek turns his head just so. Erica looks like an assasin or temptress in the shadow of a rose lattice and Boyd's face is so cast in shadows it's hard to make out much of him. There is even a picture of Peter, with one half of his face looking almost dead and maggot infested, and the other side so sweet yet sly.

He sees others he does not know so well. The chemistry teacher, if he's not mistaken, Mr. Harris, looks bitter and lonely and dry, like a long forgotten lemon in the bottom of a basket. Coach Finstock looks like a mad scientist, with fire in eyes and his wild hair looking struck by lightning. He even recognizes that cashier at one of the greengrocers, who looks so carelessly, naturally vicious yet gentle.

And finally, he comes to the last painting in the room. It's not finished yet, like the portraits of Finstock and Isaac and the picture of the muddy shoes, but he knows immediately who it is.   
Derek looks at himself.

It's a hard picture to look at. He expects a hard mouth and stuborn jaw, and a furrowed brow and general air of impatience and barely contain fury. He is not disappointed. But what Derek is not expecting is the look in the canvas Derek's eyes. He looks so terribly broken. His eyes make him want to look away, it's too painful to stare at them long.

This must be how Stiles sees him, how Stiles sees them all.

"What are you doing here," it's not really a question. Derek would have startled at Stiles' voice, had he not been so lost in the painting of his own eyes.

"...Is this how you see us? Is this how you see...me?" Derek's voice is a hoarse whisper.

The sound of Stiles' footsteps come closer. He can feel the teen's breath on the back of his neck. Derek hadn't even realized his hackles were up.

"Yes, Derek, this is how I see you," Stiles takes a deep breath, and continues before Derek cam speak, not that he knows what he was going to say in any case.

"Do you know how long I've been painting portraits, Derek? Seven years. Where are they all? I've put them away. Because, you see, every year, I draw everyone afresh. I see the changes, and I draw them like they are. I always want to be surrounded by how things are, not how they were."

Derek still doesn't know what to say, but he thinks he might know what Stiles is trying to say.

The normally hyperactive teen grips Derek's shoulders and turns him around, places a gentle kiss to his lips.

"Go out to dinner with me, and by the end of the year, I will paint you again. It will be a very different picture."

And Derek finally knows what he wants to say.

"Yes, Stiles."


End file.
